Chapter 8

The body must serve the singer's purposes freely and must acquire no bad habits. The singer's self-possession is reflected in a feeling of satisfaction on the part of the listener. The quieter the singer or artist, the more significant is every expression he gives; the fewer motions he makes, the more importance they have. So he can scarcely be quiet enough. Only there must be a certain accent of expression in this quietude, which cannot be represented by indifference. The quietude of the artist is a reassurance for the public, for it can come only from the certainty of power and the full command of his task through study and preparation and perfect knowledge of the work to be presented. An artist whose art is based on power cannot appear other than self-possessed and certain of himself. An evident uneasiness is always inartistic, and hence does not belong where art is to be embodied. All dependence upon tricks of habit creates nervousness and lack of flexibility.

Therefore the singer must accustom himself to quietude in practising, and make his will master of his whole body, that later he may have free command of all his movements and means of expression.

The constant playing of single tones or chords on the piano by the teacher during the lesson is wrong, and every pupil should request its discontinuance. The teacher can hear the pupil, but the latter cannot hear himself, when this is done; and yet it is of the utmost importance that he should learn to hear himself. I am almost driven distracted when teachers bring me their pupils, and drum on the piano as if possessed while they sing. Pupils have the same effect on me when they sit and play a dozen chords to one long note.

Do they sit in the evening when they sing in a concert?

Do they hear themselves, when they do this? Unfortunately, I cannot hear them.

Poor pupils!

It is enough for a musical person to strike a single note on the piano when he practises alone, or perhaps a common chord, after which the body and hands should return to their quiet natural position. Only in a standing posture can a free deep breath be drawn, and mind and body be properly prepared for the exercise or the song to follow.

It is also well for pupils to form sentences with the proper number of syllables upon which to sing their exercises, so that even such exercises shall gradually gain a certain amount of expressiveness. Thus the exercises will form pictures which must be connected with the play of the features, as well as with an inner feeling, and thus will not become desultory and soulless and given over to indifference. Of course not till the mere tone itself is brought under complete control, and uncertainty is no longer possible, can the horizon of the pupil be thus widened without danger.

Only when a scene requires that a vocal passage be sung kneeling or sitting must the singer practise it in his room long before the performance and at all rehearsals, in accordance with dramatic requirements of the situation. _Otherwise the singer should always_ STAND. We must also look out for unaccustomed garments that may be required on the stage, and rehearse in them; for instance, hat, helmet, hood, cloak, etc. Without becoming accustomed to them by practice, the singer may easily make himself ridiculous on the stage. Hence comes the absurdity of a Lohengrin who cannot sing with a helmet, another who cannot with a shield, a third who cannot with gauntlets; a Wanderer who cannot with the big hat, another who cannot with the spear, a Jose who cannot with the helmet, etc. All these things must be practised before a mirror until the requirements of a part or its costume become a habit. To attain this, the singer must be completely master of his body and all his movements.

It must be precisely the same with the voice. The singer must be quite independent of bad habits in order consciously to exact from it what the proper interpretation of the work to be performed requires.

He should practise only so long as can be done without weariness. After every exercise he should take a rest, to be fresh for the next one. After the great scale he should rest _at least_ ten minutes; and these resting times must be observed as long as one sings.

Long-continued exertion should not be exacted of the voice at first; even if the effects of it are not immediately felt, a damage is done in some way. In this matter pupils themselves are chiefly at fault, because they cannot get enough, as long as they take pleasure in it.

For this reason it is insane folly to try to sing important rôles on the stage after one or two years of study; it may perhaps be endured for one or two years without evil results, but it can never be carried on indefinitely.

Agents and managers commit a crime when they demand enormous exertions of such young singers. The rehearsals, which are held in abominably bad air, the late hours, the irregular life that is occasioned by rehearsals, the strain of standing around for five or six hours in a theatre,--all this is not for untrained young persons. No woman of less than twenty-four years should sing soubrette parts, none of less than twenty-eight years second parts, and none of less than thirty-five years dramatic parts; that is early enough. By that time proper preparation can be made, and in voice and person something can be offered worth while. And our fraternity must realize this sooner or later. In that way, too, they will learn more and be able to do more, and fewer sins will be committed against the art of song by the incompetent.

SECTION XXXVI

CONCERNING EXPRESSION

When we wish to study a rôle or a song, we have first to master the intellectual content of the work. Not till we have made ourselves a clear picture of the whole should we proceed to elaborate the details, through which, however, the impression of the whole should never be allowed to suffer. The complete picture should always shine out through all. If it is too much broken into details, it becomes a thing of shreds and patches.

So petty accessories must be avoided, that the larger outline of the whole picture shall not suffer. The complete picture must ever claim the chief interest; details should not distract attention from it. In art, subordination of the parts to the whole is an art of itself. Everything must be fitted to the larger lineaments that should characterize a masterpiece.

A word is an idea; and not only the idea, but how that idea in color and connection is related to the whole, must be expressed. Therein is the fearsome magic that Wagner has exercised upon me and upon all others, that draws us to him and lets none escape its spell. That is why the elaboration of Wagner's creations seems so much worth while to the artist. Every elaboration of a work of art demands the sacrifice of some part of the artist's ego, for he must mingle the feelings set before him for portrayal with his own in his interpretation, and thus, so to speak, lay bare his very self. But since we must impersonate human beings, we may not spare ourselves, but throw ourselves into our task with the devotion of all our powers.

SECTION XXXVII

BEFORE THE PUBLIC

In the wide reaches of the theatre it is needful to give an exaggeration to the expression, which in the concert hall, where the forms of society rule, must be entirely abandoned. And yet the picture must be presented by the artist to the public from the very first word, the very first note; the mood must be felt in advance. This depends partly upon the bearing of the singer and the expression of countenance he has during the prelude, whereby interest in what is coming is aroused and is directed upon the music as well as upon the poem.

The picture is complete in itself; I have only to vivify its colors during the performance. Upon the management of the body, upon the electric current which should flow between the artist and the public,--a current that often streams forth at his very appearance, but often is not to be established at all,--depend the glow and effectiveness of the color which we impress upon our picture.

No artist should be beguiled by this into giving forth more than artistic propriety permits, either to enhance the enthusiasm or to intensify the mood; for the electric connection cannot be forced. Often a tranquillizing feeling is very soon manifest on both sides, the effect of which is quite as great, even though less stimulating. Often, too, a calm, still understanding between singer and public exercises a fascination upon both, that can only be attained through a complete devotion to the task in hand, and renunciation of any attempt to gain noisy applause.

To me it is a matter of indifference whether the public goes frantic or listens quietly and reflectively, for I give out only what I have undertaken to. If I have put my individuality, my powers, my love for the work, into a rôle or a song that is applauded by the public, I decline all thanks for it to myself personally, and consider the applause as belonging to the master whose work I am interpreting. If I have succeeded in making him intelligible to the public, the reward therefor is contained in that fact itself, and I ask for nothing more.

Of what is implied in the intelligent interpretation of a work of art, as to talent and study, the public has no conception. Only they can understand it whose lives have been devoted to the same ideals. The lasting understanding of such, or even of a part of the public, is worth more than all the storm of applause that is given to so many.

All the applause in the world cannot repay me for the sacrifices I have made for art, and no applause in the world is able to beguile me from the dissatisfaction I feel over the failure of a single tone or attempted expression.

What seems to me bad, because I demand the greatest things of myself, is, to be sure, good enough for many others. I am, however, not of their opinion. In any matter relating to art, only the best is good enough for any public. If the public is uncultivated, one must make it know the best, must educate it, must teach it to understand the best. A naïve understanding is often most strongly exhibited by the uncultivated--that is, the unspoiled--public, and often is worth more than any cultivation. The cultivated public should be willing to accept only the best; it should ruthlessly condemn the bad and the mediocre.

It is the artist's task, through offering his best and most carefully prepared achievements, to educate the public, to ennoble it; and he should carry out his mission without being influenced by bad standards of taste.

The public, on the other hand, should consider art, not as a matter of fashion, or as an opportunity to display its clothes, but should feel it as a true and profound enjoyment, and do everything to second the artist's efforts.

Arriving late at the opera or in the concert hall is a kind of bad manners which cannot be sufficiently censured. In the same way, going out before the end, at unfitting times, and the use of fans in such a way as to disturb artists and those sitting near, should be avoided by cultivated people. Artists who are concentrating their whole nature upon realizing an ideal, which they wish to interpret with the most perfect expression, should not be disturbed or disquieted.

On the other hand, operatic performances, and concerts especially, should be limited in duration and in the number of pieces presented. It is better to offer the public a single symphony or a short list of songs or pianoforte pieces, which it can listen to with attention and really absorb, than to provide two or three hours of difficult music that neither the public can listen to with sufficient attention nor the artist perform with sufficient concentration.

SECTION XXXVIII

INTERPRETATION

Let us return to the subject of Expression, and examine a song; for example,

_"Der Nussbaum" by Schumann._

The prevailing mood through it is one of quiet gayety, consequently one demanding a pleasant expression of countenance. The song picture must rustle by us like a fairy story. The picture shows us the fragrant nut tree putting forth its leaves in the spring; under it a maiden lost in reverie, who finally falls asleep, happy in her thoughts. All is youth and fragrance, a charming little picture, whose colors must harmonize. None of them should stand out from the frame. Only one single word rises above the rustling of the tree, and this must be brought plainly to the hearing of the listening maiden--and hence, also, of the public--the second "_next_" year. The whole song finds its point in that one word. The nut tree before the house puts forth its green leaves and sheds its fragrance; its blossoms are lovingly embraced by the soft breezes, whispering to each other two by two, and offer their heads to be kissed, nodding and bowing; the song must be sung with an equal fragrance, each musical phrase in one breath: that is, with six inaudible breathings, without ritenuto.

They whisper of a maiden who night and day is thinking, she knows not of what herself. Between "selber" and "nicht was" a slight separation of the words can be made, by breaking off the _r_ in "selber" nasally; and holding the tone nasally, without taking a fresh breath, attacking the "nicht" anew. In this way an expression of uncertainty is lent to the words "nicht was."

But now all becomes quite mysterious. "They whisper, they whisper"--one must bend one's thoughts to hear it; who can understand so soft a song? But now I hear plainly, even though it be very soft--the whisper about the bridegroom and the next year, and again quite significantly, the _next_ year. That is so full of promise, one can scarcely tear one's self away from the thoughts, from the word in which love is imparted, and yet that, too, comes to an end!

Now I am the maiden herself who listens, smiling in happiness, to the rustling of the tree, leaning her head against its trunk, full of longing fancies as she sinks to sleep and to dream, from which she would wish never to awaken.

_"Feldeinsamkeit" by Brahms._

This song interprets the exalted mood of the soul of the man who, lying at rest in the long grass, watches the clouds float by, and whose being is made one with nature as he does so. A whole world of insects buzzes about him, the air shimmers in the bright sunlight, flowers shed their perfume; everything about him lives a murmuring life in tones that seem to enhance the peace of nature, far from the haunts of men.

As tranquil as are the clouds that pass by, as peaceful as is the mood of nature, as luxurious as are the flowers that spread their fragrance, so tranquil and calm must be the breathing of the singer, which draws the long phrases of the song over the chords of the accompaniment, and brings before us in words and tones the picture of the warm peace of summer in nature, and the radiant being of a man dissolved within it.

I mark the breathing places with _V_. "Ich liege still im Nohen grünen Gras _V_ und sende lange meinen Blick _V_ nach oben _V_ [and again comfortably, calmly] nach oben.

"Von Grillen rings umschwärmt _V_ ohn' Unterlass _V_ von Himmelsbläue wundersam umwoben _V_ von Himmelsbläue _V_ _wundersam umwoben_."

Each tone, each letter, is connected closely with the preceding and following; the expression of the eyes and of the soul should be appropriate to that of the glorified peace of nature and of the soul's happiness. The last phrase should soar tenderly, saturated with a warm and soulful coloring.

"Die schönen weissen Wolken zieh'n dahin _V_ durch's _tiefe_ Blau _V_, [I gaze at it for a moment] wie schöne, stille Träume _V_ [losing one's self] wie schöne stille Träume. _V_ [A feeling of dissolution takes away every thought of living and being.] Mir ist _V_ als ob _V_ ich längst _V_ gestorben bin! [The whole being is dissolved in the ether; the end comes with outstretched wings soaring above the earth.] und ziehe selig mit _V_ durch ew'ge Räume _V_ und ziehe selig mit _V_ durch ew'ge Räume. [Dissolution of the soul in the universe must sound forth from the singer's tone.]

_"The Erlking," by Schubert._

For him who is familiar with our native legends and tales, the willows and alders in the fields and by the brooks are peopled with hidden beings, fairies, and witches. They stretch out ghostly arms, as their veils wave over their loose hair, they bow, cower, raise themselves, become as big as giants or as little as dwarfs. They seem to lie in wait for the weak, to fill them with fright.

The father, however, who rides with his child through the night and the wind, is a man, no ghost; and his faithful steed, that carries both, no phantom. The picture is presented to us vividly; we can follow the group for long. The feeling is of haste, but not of ghostliness. The prelude should consequently sound simply fast, but not overdrawn. The first phrases of the singer should be connected with it as a plain narrative.

Suddenly the child hugs the father more closely and buries his face in terror in his bosom. Lovingly the father bends over him; _quietly_ he asks him the cause of his fear.

Frightened, the child looks to one side, and asks, in disconnected phrases, whether his father does not see the Erlking, the Erlking with his crown and train. They had just ridden by a clump of willows. Still quietly, the father explains _smilingly_ to his son that what he saw was a bank of fog hanging over the meadow.

But in the boy's brain the Erlking has already raised his enticing whisper.[3] The still, small voice, as though coming from another world, promises the child golden raiment, flowers, and games.

[Footnote 3: The voice of the Erlking is a continuous, soft, uninterrupted stream of tone, upon which the whispered words are hung. The Erlking excites the thoughts of the fever-sick boy. The three enticements must be sung very rapidly, without any interruption of the breath. The first I sing as far as possible in one breath (if I am not hampered by the accompanist), or at most in two; the second in two, the third in three; and here for the first time the words "reizt" and "branch ich Gewalt" emerge from the whispered pianissimo.]

Fearfully he asks his father if he does not hear the Erlking's whispered promises.

"It is only the dry leaves rustling in the wind." The father quiets him, and his voice is full of firm and loving reassurance, but he feels that his child is sick.

For but a few seconds all is still; then the voice comes back again. In a low whisper sounds and words are distinguished. Erlking invites the boy to play with his daughters, who shall dance with him and rock him and sing to him.

In the heat of fever the boy implores his father to look for the Erlking's daughters. The father sees only an old gray willow; but his voice is no longer calm. Anxiety for his sick child makes his manly tones break; the comforting words contain already a longing for the journey's end--quickly, quickly, must he reach it.

Erlking has now completely filled the feverish fancy of the child. With ruthless power he possesses himself of the boy--all opposition is vain--the silver cord is loosened. Once more he cries out in fear to his father, then his eyes are closed. The man, beside himself, strains every nerve--his own and his horse's; his haste is like a wild flight. The journey's end is reached; breathless they stop--but the race was in vain.

A cold shudder runs through even the narrator; his whole being is strained and tense, he must force his mouth to utter the last words.

SECTION XXXIX

IN CONCLUSION

The class of voice is dependent upon the inborn characteristics of the vocal organs. But the development of the voice and all else that appertains to the art of song, can, providing talent is not lacking, be learned through industry and energy.

If every singer cannot become a _famous_ artist, every singer is at least in duty bound to have learned something worth while, and to do his best according to his powers, as soon as he has to appear before any public. As an artist, he should not afford this public merely a cheap amusement, but should acquaint it with the most perfect embodiments of that art whose sole task properly is to ennoble the taste of mankind, and to bestow happiness; to raise it above the miseries of this workaday world, withdraw it from them, to idealize even the hateful things in human nature which it may have to represent, without departing from truth.

But what is the attitude of artists toward these tasks?

CLEVELAND, January 11, 1902.

NOTE

_A Good Remedy for Catarrh and Hoarseness_

Pour boiling hot water into a saucer, and let a large sponge suck it all up. Then squeeze it firmly out again. Hold the sponge to the nose and mouth, and breathe alternately through the nose and mouth, in and out.

I sing my exercises, the great scale, passages, etc., and all the vowels into it, and so force the hot steam to act upon the lungs, bronchial tubes, and especially on the mucous membranes, while I am breathing in and out through the sponge. After this has been kept up for ten or fifteen minutes, wash the face in cold water. This can be repeated four to six times a day. The sponge should not be full of water, but must be quite squeezed out. This has helped me greatly, and I can recommend it highly. It can do no injury because it is natural. But after breathing in the hot steam, do not go out immediately into the cold air.